The second examiner was less enthusiastic.  He made very few suppositions, and devoted all his art to convicting me of a contradiction between page seventeen and page seventy-nine.  He kept repeating, “It’s a serious matter, sir, very serious.”  But, nevertheless, he bestowed a second white mark on me.  I only got half white from the third.  The rest of the examination was taken up in matters extraneous to the subject of my essay, a commonplace trial of strength, in which I replied with threadbare arguments to outworn objections.

And then it ended.  Two hours had passed.

I left the room while the examiners made up their minds.

A few friends came up to me.

“Congratulations, old man, I bet on six whites.”

“Hallo, Larive!  I never noticed you.”

“I quite believe you; you didn’t notice anybody, you still look bewildered.  Is it the emotion inseparable from—­”

“I dare say.”

“The candidate is requested to return to the examination room!” said the usher.

And old Michu added, in a whisper, “You have passed.  I told you so.  You won’t forget old Michu, sir.”

M. Flamaran conferred my degree with a paternal smile, and a few kind words for “this conscientious study, full of fresh ideas on a difficult subject.”

I bowed to the examiners.  Larive was waiting for me in the courtyard, and seized me by the arm.

“Uncle Mouillard will be pleased.”

“I suppose so.”

“Better pleased than you.”

“That’s very likely.”

“He might easily be that.  Upon my word I can’t understand you.  These two years you have been working like a gang of niggers for your degree, and now you have got it you don’t seem to care a bit.  You have won a smile from Flamaran and do not consider yourself a spoiled child of Fortune!  What more did you want?  Did you expect that Mademoiselle Charnot would come in person—­”

“Look here, Larive—­”

“To look on at your examination, and applaud your answers with her neatly gloved hands?  Surely you know, my dear fellow, that that is no longer possible, and that she is going to be married.”

“Going to be married?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know it.”

“I have suspected as much since yesterday; I met her at the Salon, and saw a young man with her.”

“Fair?”

“Yes.”

“Tall?”

“Rather.”

“Good-looking?”

“H’m—­well”

“Dufilleul, old chap, friend Dufilleul.  Don’t you know Dufilleul?”

“No.”

“Oh, yes you do—­a bit of a stockjobber, great at ecarte, studied law in our year, and is always to be seen at the Opera with little Tigra of the Bouffes.”

“Poor girl!”

“You pity her?”

“It’s too awful.”

“What is?”

“To see an unhappy child married to a rake who—­”

“She will not be the first.”